The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series

by Chautona Havig

  “But he isn’t your god.” Dolfin turned again, walking as swiftly as ever.

  “No. I sometimes want to believe, but it is hard…”

  “Tell me one of the stories.”

  Still enamored with the tale of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, Dove retold it, careful to remain faithful to the exact facts that Philip shared. “I think he said that they were bound before they were thrown in, but I am not sure.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It makes a better story if they were and then the King sees them walking around.”

  “Oh no,” Dove protested. “Broðor Clarke requires us to tell the stories exactly as they are in the Bible.”

  “Why? A story should be told as interestingly—”

  “But these stories are true—they really happened; I AM values truth. He doesn’t want His book changed because then it isn’t true.”

  Dolfin stopped mid-stride and turned to look at her again. “I thought you said you didn’t believe in this god of Philip’s.”

  “I don’t.” Confusion flooded her voice. “I told you that.”

  “You sound as though you do. You say the stories are true, you defend what this I AM says, how can you not believe?” He hesitated, remembering. “The son of god. This god has a son?”

  “Yes, Jesus. That is the best part of that story. He walked in the furnace with those men hundreds or even thousands of years before He was even born!”

  “How is that possible?” Dolfin was audibly skeptical.

  “I think that is what Philip meant when he said that Jesus is ‘the same yesterday, today, and forever.’ He always has been God, but He came to live on earth as a baby.’”

  “You know a lot about a god in whom you do not believe. You speak with great confidence. Why don’t you believe?”

  The next mile or two passed in silence as Dove pondered the question. Dolfin seemed to know she needed quiet to consider his question. However, the silence seemed to oppress him and he asked another question. “Do you pray to this god?”

  “I have…”

  “But you don’t believe.”

  “Well…” Dove didn’t know how to respond. “I—” Anger welled up in her. “I don’t see how it is any of your concern. You asked for a story and I told it.”

  “What does I AM require of His followers?”

  “Everything,” she whispered.

  “Everything? Your money? Your family? What?”

  Dove stopped, leaning against the wall, panting. She hung her head, unwilling to look up at Dolfin who waited for an answer. “He wants everything—you, your whole heart and life.”

  “And you don’t want to give it up?”

  “I don’t know if I can.” Admitting it aloud took more out of her than she expected. She slid to the floor, hung her arms on her knees, and dropped her head onto them.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t trust Him. I want to, but I don’t.” The words sounded wrung from her, even to her own ears. She glanced up at him and saw Dolfin nod. “I really want to.”

  Dolfin pulled out a flask and passed it to her. “What would he have to do for you to trust him?”

  Her mind whirled. It was a question she hadn’t considered. What else could I AM do to gain her trust? He had created her, sent His Son to die for her. He had possibly used Bertha to protect her even from death. Philip was convinced that I AM had led her to the cave in the blizzard. Why else would she have chosen to go up a steep cliff rather than to a familiar tunnel—into a cave where a dragon would keep her from freezing.

  “He can’t. He’s done everything. It’s me. I can’t trust.”

  With his arms crossed, Dolfin stared into the depths of her hood, seeing nothing but understanding much. “Most gods must be taken on faith. What makes this one any different?”

  Chapter 30

  Decided

  Not two days after Lord Morgan and his knights rode out of Oxford toward home, Philip sat listening to his Theology master expound on the story of Elijah and the ravens. He’d heard strange things in Mass but had attributed it to his weak translating abilities. This was unbelievable.

  He was confused. After all, Master Adrian had insisted on perfect translations from the Latin, but now Master Francis took that translation and made it a mystical jumble of ideas that added much symbolism to the original story. Broðor Clarke would be appalled.

  His questions were not answered satisfactorily. Confused and a little disillusioned, he strolled through the streets, trying to get his mind wrapped around the strange new ideas that his masters were teaching him. The sight of the church gave him a new idea. Eager to discover what he was being taught, he went inside in search of the priest.

  A voice nearly made him jump out of his skin. “Can I help you?”

  Philip turned and met the kindly eyes of the priest. “I—I have questions. I’m a student…” He sighed. “I guess that is obvious.”

  “Somewhat.”

  Halting at every third word, Philip tried to explain his dilemma. After retelling the story he’d heard, he shook his head. “Broðor Clarke has always been adamant that we only retell things exactly as the Bible says.”

  “And who is Broðor Clarke?”

  “Our minister. He teaches us what the Bible says. He prepared me for Oxford.”

  “Any man who does not teach the doctrines and traditions of the church has no right to teach anyone. Only a priest—”

  “Oh, Broðor Clarke was taught by the priests in Ireland. I think he is a priest, but he just goes by Broðor Clarke.”

  “Heretical Irish priests. They’ve finally been brought under the authority of the church, but he was likely taught by men who resisted the pope.” The man’s kind eyes grew cold and hard. “Do not listen to the teachings of such a man. The church should try him for heresy.”

  A fearful dread washed over Philip as he listened. What had he done? If this priest pressed things, he could make trouble for the minister who had taught Wynnewood faithfully for many years now. “I see,” he said, trying to sound agreeable. Well, thank you for explaining it. I’ll have to study harder I suppose.”

  “Do you plan to study theology?”

  He hadn’t allowed himself to decide, but now Philip was certain. “Yes. I think I will.”

  “Good. We need devout men like you in the church.”

  Before the man could ask the name of his village, Philip made excuses to leave and hurried out of the building. He wandered the streets aimlessly for quite some time and then found himself outside the gates and strolling toward the tree where he’d told Dove the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.

  He dropped to the ground beneath it, his arms spread out beside him, lying up looking at the sky. Swallows flew overhead on their flight to places unknown for the winter. Where did the birds go? How did they know when to leave and when to return if the Lord did not somehow whisper it to them? Perhaps it was on the fifth day of creation. When the Lord spoke birds into existence, did He whisper directions to them then, or did it happen every year? Who knew?

  What could he do? If the Bible was the Word of God, and even the priests and masters said that it was, then how could it be right to create doctrines from within it rather than teach those that are within it? Broðor Clarke had to be right. You must keep faithful to what it says rather than what it could mean in a mystical sense. The masters at the university seemed to have corrupted the teachings of the Bible—even reaching to the priest!

  His spirit checked him. Did he have proof of his assertions? Was he certain of his suspicions? It would be a terrible thing to accuse godly men of spiritual corruption. Then again, was it not better to avoid the possibility of it if he was correct?

  It hardly seemed possible, but the evidence was there. Did he want to put himself under the instruction of such men? Was he willing to risk his faith being altered by those who might not hold the same loyalty to the strict truth of scripture?

  The moment the thought came to him, Philip knew
he was not. Resolved, he jumped to his feet and strode back to town. The closer he drew to his lodgings, the more convinced he was that he must leave. He entered his room and immediately found his money, counting the coins carefully. He had a generous allowance that Lord Morgan had just replenished before leaving. There’d be plenty of money to pay for food and lodging along the way. Perhaps he’d be able to ride with wagons traveling between towns. Regardless, it was time to go.

  It took him much longer to pack everything he needed to take than he expected. The moment he hefted the pack, he knew he’d not be able to travel far with something so heavy. After three or four repacks, more things coming out each time, he found a weight he was sure he could carry long distances.

  He was late for his French tutoring, but Philip didn’t care. He knocked on the door, opened it, and asked to speak to the master. “I’m going home. I just wanted someone to know that I’m fine, but I’m leaving Oxford. You’ve been an excellent instructor. Thank you.”

  “Philip, you have great promise as an academic. Are you—”

  “I should have gone home with Lord Morgan. I didn’t, but I’m going now. Thank you for your patience with me. Bye.”

  Unwilling to risk anymore questions, Philip turned and hurried out of the building and toward the gate. He couldn’t get too far in one day, but out of the town seemed imperative. A farm wagon rattled past, offering him a ride less than a mile from the town, much to Philip’s relief.

  “Where’re you going?”

  “North— home.”

  Dove tramped ahead of the runner, Rodney, the light from his torch doing little to help her see the path. The first five runners had been helpful even if all of them weren’t as friendly and chatty as Dolfin had been. Rodney was cold and suspicious. He’d demanded she pull back her hood and only the reprimand of another at Whitton kept Dove’s secret safe from him. So he forced her along ahead of him, presumably for self-protection.

  As they passed an unlit torch in the wall, Dove pulled it from the sconce and turned to light it. Rodney started to protest, but Dove had endured enough. “I’m bleeding from where my forehead has hit the lower arches. I need light.”

  “You’d see better if you took off that ridiculous hood.”

  “Well, I’m not going to, so let me light this torch and let’s go. The sooner we reach Croxden, the sooner you can get rid of me.”

  “Not soon enough,” the young man muttered as he extended the torch.”

  To Dove’s surprise, her heart softened as she pressed onward through the tunnels, turning where he said to turn. She prayed that Rodney would not fear her and that they would pass quickly through the tunnels to Croxden. A new thought occurred to her as they passed tunnel after tunnel. If her songs could mesmerize a dragon, perhaps they would soothe an irritated Mæte.

  All through the long trek, Dove had been creating a new song about the three men tossed into the furnace for their faith. If she was going to sing, the song of the trees whispering to the birds of the coming of spring didn’t seem as meaningful as sharing the amazing story of Jesus saving men from a small form of hell.

  A groan from behind her nearly squelched the idea of singing, but Dove forced herself to continue. The tunnels reverberated with her high voice, surrounding them with the melody of the song. She had no doubt that, Rodney would demand her silence, but to her surprise, he didn’t.

  At the end of the song, he asked, “Where did you learn that song? I’ve never heard it, even in the town.”

  “It’s just one I’ve been working on ever since I heard the story. I liked it and thought it would make a good song.”

  “You—” As if realizing he was sounding interested in her as a person, Rodney halted. “How did you hear the story?”

  Feeling a little like a minister herself, Dove began telling the story of the three men. She felt him slow as she told of the guards who threw the men into the furnace being consumed by the fire. “Then the most amazing thing happened. The king looked into the furnace and asked, ‘Did we not throw three men into the furnace? I see four in there and one looks like the Son of God!’”

  “Which god?”

  “He is known as ‘I AM.’”

  “I do not know that one.” Rodney sounded skeptical but interested.

  “He is the God of heaven and earth. He created all and sacrificed all.”

  “And have you seen him?

  “No.”

  “Wait,” the little man behind her stopped in his tracks. “Did you say your god, I AM, sacrificed? Do you not mean that you sacrificed to him?”

  “No. I AM came to earth as a baby—Jesus. He sacrificed Himself for man instead of the other way around.” Unaware that she hadn’t corrected Rodney’s assertion that she spoke of her God, Dove explained sin, the crucifixion, and the resurrection.

  “That is impossible!” Disappointment almost shrouded Rodney as if he believed Dove to be playing a joke on him.

  Delighted, Dove agreed. “Isn’t it! Isn’t it wonderful that God used the impossible to prove that He is greater than all the imaginary gods of this world? Had He done any less, who would believe that He is who He says He is?”

  “I’ve never heard anything so unbelievable. How can you be sure? Did you see it?”

  Sadly, Dove shook her head, the flop of her hood looking a little discouraged in the flickering light. “I wasn’t there—it happened hundreds of years ago—maybe over a thousand. I don’t remember. But there were witnesses. People wrote the story down for those who did not see. Even people who didn’t believe that Jesus was I AM said they saw Him.”

  “Gods always want something—what does this one want.”

  “You.”

  “Me? Why would a man’s god want me?”

  Shrugging, she explained. “He created you. He wants you.”

  “What does He want of me? My money, my—”

  “He owns all—even your money. He wants you.” She wasn’t sure how to explain it, but of this Dove was certain. I AM didn’t need the paltry bits of coin and stones that men valued. He didn’t need animals or land. He had everything He could want except the hearts of those who did not believe.

  “That seems like so little, and yet it is everything, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Her whispered answer seemed to echo in the chamber.

  “Do you find yourself trying to take yourself back?”

  “Take myself back?”

  Rodney nodded. “I think it would be hard to remember, every day, that you are not your own—that a god you have never seen owns you.”

  “But if that God has given His all, would it not only be right to give yours in return?”

  Her words seemed to return to her heart and pierced it with a wonder she couldn’t hope to describe. It was true. I AM had created her, loved her enough to come to earth and die for her, was it not her duty to yield her will to His? A prayer, whispered in her heart went out to the Lord who must be the Lord of her life. Help me to yield. Help me.

  Chapter 31

  Home Again

  Jakys met her and her latest runner at Cockersand. The young girl, weary with travel and a little overwhelmed with the influx of faith in her life, threw herself at the little man, sobbing. Anger flooded the little man’s face. With one arm around his little friend, he grabbed the runner’s hair with his other hand and growled, “What did you do to her?”

  “N-nothing! I don’t understand. She was singing just an hour ago— talking about some god called I AM.”

  “I’m all right, Jakys. Just glad that I’m almost home, and then I saw you…”

  With more gentleness and understanding than Jakys had ever exhibited, he whispered instructions to the runner and then led Dove to a small room. “Rest, little friend. We’ll leave just as soon as you’re rested and have a good meal.”

  “Jakys?”

  The man pointed to the bed. “Lie first, then sleep. And remove that silly cloak. I will guard the door for you.”

  Obediently, Do
ve slipped from her cloak, draped it over the foot of the bed, and pulled the covers over her as she curled up on the strange bed. “How many days has it been, do you know? Some days I’ve gone through three runners. We slept, walked, slept. It’s all a blur.”

  “I’m not sure when you left, but it’s about a day’s journey home. I just walked south until you were expected here tonight and then waited until you arrived..”

  He told of the stories that passed between communities as Dove hurried home after saving her friend from certain death. Stories of the dragon mingled with the kidnappers of Oxford until she’d become almost a legend among the Mæte. The familiar voice lulled her into a deep sleep—the first true rest she’d had since she left Wynnewood the previous month.

  As she slept, Dove dreamt of primrose covered fields, the sounds of the ocean slamming into the rocks nearby, and the scent of salt spray in the air. A cottage with smoke rising from the chimney materialized as the mists faded and an old woman hurried out the door, a bag of herbs and supplies on one arm. She stepped through the open doorway, and the scent of rabbit stew twisted her stomach in hungry knots.

  The cottage vanished, leaving her wandering along the Ciele, water splashing over the rocks as it danced toward the shore. A high clear voice seemed to follow it. Dove glanced around her, looking for the source of that voice and then realized it was hers. It filled the air, surrounding her with stories of a babe, lying in a manger, growing to be the Savior of mankind.

  Then she felt it again— the touch of someone who loved and cared for her. She heard that gentle murmur of a kind man who promised her that He was there for her; He would protect her. He loved her. And in the quiet that followed, Dove was certain that this time the words were spoken into her heart by the Great I AM. His Word indeed had been hidden in her heart through the sharing of her faithful friend, ready to comfort her even in her sleep.

  Dove stepped from the tunnels into the Sceadu. The sunshine felt wonderful, as obscured as it was by clouds every few minutes. Jakys stood at the opening to the tunnels, watching as she left. She turned once more, waving at him, and called, “Thank you again. I’ll come to the cave soon and tell you all I’ve learned.”